Garage Tales
by Comrade Clara
Summary: John and Scott clean out a garage. It's as exciting as it sounds. No slash.


This is one of my second fanfic. It was written when I was sort of tired, which is my best excuse. I tried to keep John and Scott in character, but I think I probably messed up a bit. Oh well, I'm wroking on it. Anyways, this story takes place the summer before the events of the first movie. Enjoy it.

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**Garage Tales**

Students who are lacking in the home and family departments are welcomed to spend their breaks at the Xavier School for Gifted Youngster's Special Summer Session. Most of them are in no position to decline the invitation. Sometimes, when Xavier or one of the senior X-Men were feeling brave, they would attempt to set up an activity or trip of some for the students, but for the most part the students were allowed to just hang around and generally do whatever they wanted.

Given, of course, that what they wanted to do was something which did not take them outside the school grounds or break any of the school's many rules. That didn't leave a whole lot of options for one St. John Allerdyce.

One sunny Saturday morning late in the summer, John was slumped on the couch, playing with his lighter and idly watching some kids play video games. John considered just walking out of this place and going into town, but decided that it wasn't worth getting in trouble, especially since he had already pushed his luck this week by setting that one kid's afro on fire. _I am so bored, _he thought. _I wish stupid Bobby was here. There is absolutely nothing to do in this whole freaking mansion without him._

"John!" yelled Scott, who was standing at the rec room door. "I need somebody to help me clean out the garage downstairs! You want to lend a hand?"

"Don't we have some kind of magical cleaning mutant in this joint?"

"Oh come on. Seeing as how you don't have anything else to do, I thought it might be a fun way to spend a Saturday."

John questioned the sanity of any man who would describe cleaning out a garage as "fun", but decided that just about anything would be better than watch that one fish-faced boy get beat up once again by that creepy purple-haired chick. "Fine, Mr. Summers. Shall I go fetch your dashing spandex uniform?"

Cyclops might have been smiling or scowling. It was hard to tell with that visor.

They trudged downstairs as Scott explained their mission. Professor Xavier had decided that the old garage would work better as a training room, and therefore needed to be cleaned so it was possible to walk around., Being unable to carry out the task himself, had assigned his most trusted X-Man to the job. Professor X had also suggested that Cyclops get one of the students to help him, so that the lucky recruit would earn some real battle experience. They were to salvage all of the items they could and put to rest the useless junk.

A little known fact about the Xavier Mansion is that it actually has two garages. One is filled with shiny cars and state-of-the-art machinery. The other had become a dumping ground for all kinds of toys and junk. It was so difficult to navigate that most had given up using it entirely and had started to leave their items in the shed outside. Our two brave heroes had unfortunately arrived at the latter.

The door the outside was closed, and it was so rusty that John wondered whether it still worked at all. The room was surprisingly dark for such a sunny day, and the only light came a single flickering light bulb having from the ceiling. The light made the dust flying in the air look eerily beautiful. Then John looked down, and went into shock. How could the young mutants of this school possibly acquired so much crap? You couldn't move without stepping on some kind of broken sports equipment or furniture or God-knows-what else. The poor teenager gaped at how cruelly he had been roped into helping with such a hopeless task.

Behind him, Scott was pushing several huge cardboard boxes. "We'll put the garbage in these four, and anything worth saving in this one. Make sure you don't throw anything valuable."

"I doubt were going to find any buried treasure here, Mr. Summers."

"Just ask me if you have any question about where anything belongs, alright?" Cyclops actually seemed sort of worried.

"Fine, whatever."

John flicked his lighter one last time and got to work. They started with the stuff closest to them, hoping to clear a path across the garage and work from there. Some old soda cans. Trash. An airless basketball. Trash. A stack of Pokemon cards. Trash.

"So, are you having a good summer so far?" Scott asked in an attempt to start some sort of conversation.

"Oh, it's alright, I guess." John didn't look up from his work. "There's not really a lot to do around here. You'd expect a secret training facility for crime-fighting mutants to be more interesting."

"Yeah, I guess." replied Scott rather lamely. He didn't really know how to respond to John's smart comments and still retain his dignity as an authority figure.

An awkward silence settled between them. They slowly but surely cleared a path through the chaos. A pair of tennis rackets that had been fused together. Trash. One of those damn annoying Furby things. Trash. An empty picture frame with cracked glass. Trash. A Disney VHS film with all of the tape pulled out. Trash.

Scott decided that it was time to take another brave stab at communication. "Hey, John, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Why, golly gee mister, I wanna be a fireman, and the president, and a super hero!" John replied sarcastically.

"You really could do the last part, you know."

"And spend my days flying around in spandex, saving a world full of idiots? No thanks."

Scott made a noise that John took to mean disapproval, and neither of them said anything for a while. John almost felt bad for being so rude to the older man, _but seriously,_ he thought, _what kind of question is that? Why does everybody in this place treat you like you're five?_

A model airplane with a wing broken off. Trash. A picture of a happy family that looked as if it had been partially burned by acid. Trash. A cage with some sort of skeleton still inside. Trash.

"Mr. Summers, when you were a kid, did you have to spend the summers in this dump?"

"Yes."

"No wonder you're so boring."

John was pretty sure Scott smiled that time, but it was hard to tell in that light.

A sofa cushion which appeared to have been stabbed repeatedly with a knife. Trash. A long white feather that was so covered with dust that it looked grey. Trash. A hand-knitted scarf. Trash. A pair of hot pink roller blades...

"Hey, you should keep those." called Scott from across the room. They were actually making some progress.

"Why?"

"They belong to Jean."

"Why would she need roller blades? Don't you all have a jet?"

"She used to waitress at one of those retro drive-through restaurants."

"Ms. Grey was a waitress!"

That was definitely a smile.

John threw the skates in the other box. He was surprised to see that it was already halfway full.

Advanced but outdated science books. Trash. Some old, tattered excuse for a t-shirt. Trash. A packet of radish seeds. Trash. Weird metal contraptions that resembled a visor sitting on the face of the one and only Cyclops.

"Hey, should we keep these?" John asked. He held up the rusting metal visors to show to Scott, and realized how heavy they were.

"No. Just throw them away."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

John threw them in the "save" box anyways.

An old Superman comic. Trash. Moldy philosophy books. Trash. A group of atrociously tacky metal flamingo decorations. Trash. Some weird scientific sketches covered with complex mathematical equations. Trash. A deformed Star of David necklace. Trash. A pair of athletic shoes that looked as though they had never been worn. Trash.

The time actually went by rather fast, and before John knew it, they were done.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" John and Scott stood up and surveyed the room. It was almost empty, except for a decrepit old car in the middle. "Just leave the boxes here, I'll take care of them later."

Scott left and John followed right behind him. He glanced back at the boxes of junk in the corner once before turning off the light and shutting the door.

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As always, reviews are loved, constructive criticism is worshipped.


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